


Shattered Glass

by betagyre



Series: Choosing Grey [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Forced Pregnancy Threat, Horcruxes, Inappropriate Use of a Dark Artifact, Mildly Dubious Consent, Possessive Sex, Rape Fantasy, Roleplay, Sorry Not Sorry, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7018264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betagyre/pseuds/betagyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Head of Magical Law Enforcement, Tom has been up to no good, and Hermione is irritated about it.  She decides to try an experiment with him involving a different outlet for power… and he is delighted at the idea.</p>
<p>Occurs during early events of <i>A Marked Deck</i>. Part of the same AU but a separate fic for tag reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This follows _Choosing Grey_ , if you want it to. The beginning of the piece refers briefly to events that occur in the chapter “Highly Irregular” in _A Marked Deck_. (It is not necessary to know the details of it to enjoy this fic, and I didn’t want to bog this piece down with political skulduggery exposition. In short, the Blacks were stripped of their Wizengamot seat following _Choosing Grey_ , and recently, Tom has done some very questionable things in a vote to reinstate them—a vote that apparently did not pass.) It is not included in the _Marked Deck_ anthology because I don’t want the list of tags on this fic to scare anyone off the other fic. **_Please note all the tags!_** It is not non-consensual, but it certainly plays it, and there are other elements that are just f’d up and dark.

Hermione climbed out of the sumptuous green marble bathtub and dried herself. _The bath was very good for me,_ she thought. She had calmed down quite a bit from earlier this evening, when she had confronted Tom after dinner with the letter from Orion Black and they had argued over several related issues. Part of the pleasant effect might have been magical, of course. They had charmed this tub to be somewhat like the one in the prefects’ bathroom at Hogwarts, with multicolored, scented soaps and jets of water. It was very soothing, and while she had soaked in it, Hermione had thought about the situation and what she might do about it.

Tom was going to deal with Black, and she had made him swear not to do anything harmful. That would only treat the symptom, though. The real issue was his desire to exert power over people and make sure they knew it. It wasn’t simply a pragmatic, ruthless determination to do what he deemed politically necessary. There was that, but he also enjoyed power for its own sake. He thrived on it. He… got a thrill from it.

That conclusion was the genesis of Hermione’s plan.

She put on her nightgown and combed through her hair, staring at herself in the mirror.

_Am I really going to invite—this? We have had boundaries for this before. He has been very domineering when he wants to be, but—whether he would admit it or not—we both have known that I’ve had final say. This is…._

She smoothed out a tangle in her hair and resolved upon her idea.

_If it works, Tom will have another, more harmless outlet—_

Her brain interrupted that thought before it could complete itself, apparently informing her that she was finished and it was time to leave the bathroom. That was all it was, not a refusal to complete the idea, certainly not a defensive mechanism against anything.

She opened the door and walked down the hall to their bedroom.

Tom was there, fresh from his own bath. He smelled like a mix of high-end cologne and woods, she thought idly. He was wearing wizard robes, but then, he always wore those to bed.

_He’s a wizard waking and sleeping._

He was usually sprawled comfortably on one side of the large bed, but tonight he was seated tensely at the foot of it, almost like a coiled spring.

_Or a coiled snake._

He gazed at her from under narrowed eyebrows. “Hermione.” It was more than an acknowledgment of her presence. There was an undertone of warning.

The adrenaline in her momentarily spiked, but she plunged ahead. “Tom, when I was getting my bath, I thought about what happened earlier.”

“So did I,” he said, continuing to gaze at her. It was almost a leer.

Her heart thumped.

“You enjoy power,” she said. “It… pleases you.”

“I hope that isn’t a new revelation to you,” he said with a smirk.

“Of course not, but I had an idea about this while I was in the bath.”

Tom stood up, his black silk robes falling down his body in smooth lines. “I did too.” He took a step toward her. “I think tonight I should tie you up and torment you until you beg. Wouldn’t you agree, darling?”

Her heart skipped a beat, then started beating hard. “Actually… I had another idea.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Let’s hear it.”

Hermione drew forward and met his eyes. She took a deep breath. “I thought about doing rather a lot more than that, if you want to.”

_“Do_ tell.” That definitely had a hint of menace. In the dim magic light, he looked almost vampiric.

“What if I told you that you could do absolutely anything you wanted with me? That, if you liked, you could even… pretend to force me.”

His eyes widened for a moment, then returned to their normal size. He gazed wolfishly at her. “Is that what you want, Hermione?”

She averted her eyes from him slightly. “Well, I thought that since you like power, you should act out the urge on me, this way, rather than… other ways that could cause actual problems.”

“Really. _That’s_ your motive.”

“I think it would be a better outlet—”

He closed the remaining distance between them and stood in front of her, several inches taller, his breathing heavy—though he attempted to conceal that. “No. That’s not it.”

“Of course that’s it,” she protested, but her own mind was objecting. It really wasn’t. He was correct about that. But that meant it was—

“No, you _want_ me to.” He gazed at her, the ghost of a smirk on his face. “You actually want me to hold you down and—in your own words—do anything I wanted, including pretending to ‘force you.’ You suggested that for a reason, dear.”

Her eyes fluttered shut. This, then, was what she blocked out in the bathroom. This was what she knew the train of thought would inevitably lead to, the realization that this was not actually about “helping him,” but about her own taboo desire.

“Look at me, Hermione.” He tilted her chin upward, and she opened her eyes again. He looked predatory now, leering down at her with a hungry expression.

“You do enjoy displaying power,” she mumbled. “You can’t deny that.”

“I didn’t deny it,” he replied. He reached for her shoulders. “I bet you got excited from discovering what I did. Hearing about me being ‘powerful’ does that to you, doesn’t it?”

She wasn’t going to answer that. He was taunting her, and she would not give him the satisfaction of a response. Besides, his grip was a bit harder than it really had to be. His fingers pressed aggressively against her shoulders, and that thought dominated her mind….

The pressure was suddenly lifted. “Get on the bed,” he snarled, shoving her down physically. She stumbled backward, falling onto the plush mattress. He quickly mounted it, yanked her legs on the bed, and climbed on her.

He was close, his face centimeters away from hers and set in an insolent rictus of determination. She was suddenly intensely aware of him, of his presence. He smiled sinisterly and trailed his index finger slowly down her cheek.

“I have a confession too,” he hissed. He withdrew his hand from her face and reached across the bed for the yew wand that lay on the bedside table, not breaking his gaze with her. He drew the wand across the soft, sensitive skin of the side of her neck. “Can you guess what it is?”

She breathed deeply. “You want to as well. You want to do this.”

“Of course I do. That’s obvious.” The wand traced a line across her collarbone to the other side of her neck. “I meant a rather… darker… confession.”

She was transfixed by his face—by those eyes, so cold and unreadable around others, so expressive in private—

“In seventh year, there were a few times when I _actually_ wanted to.” His tongue flitted between his lips ever so slightly, and—was that a trick of the magic lights, meant to simulate the gentle fiery tones of candlelight, or did they just gleam red?

“When?” she whispered.

He smirked faintly. “I’m thinking of one time in particular.”

“When?” Hermione repeated.

Tom ignored that question, giving her a silkily arrogant look. With his free hand, he grabbed her wrists and held them above her head. “Can’t have you struggling,” he said, casting a spell to bind them to a curlicue in the exquisitely carved headboard. “You might actually get away from me, and that’s unacceptable.”

She suddenly understood that he was now acting his part. Since he really was going to do this—and obviously enjoyed the prospect—she decided to play along.

“Do what you like to me,” she said, glaring at him from hooded eyes, “but it won’t matter. I won’t give in.” She did not know exactly what time in seventh year he was alluding to, though she had a couple of possibilities in mind—and if her guesses were correct, what she said would make perfect sense to him.

“Oh yes you will,” he hissed. “You’ll break like glass.” He grabbed at the filmy material of her nightgown and gave a ferocious tug. The thin shoulder straps ripped cleanly along the seams. He pulled the garment off her, roughly manhandling her legs, making her bend her knees to make his job easier.

“You tore my nightgown.”

“I’ll fix it,” he growled. “You have bigger things to worry about, _dear.”_ He uttered the final word as a threat—

—And immediately followed through. His hands, large and lean, were on her breasts, grabbing roughly and possessively, fingertips circling her nipples, which—to her dismay—were already hard. His eyes flashed at the realization, which he seemed to have at the same time she did, and he descended upon her bosom with a vengeance, his tongue swirling around her pert peaks.

She gasped and tried to regain command of her thoughts. “When did you fantasize about forcing me?” she got out.

He stopped and gazed up at her, barely moving his head. It gave him a very intimidating leer. “There was one specific night when I stood outside the Room of Requirement, waiting, _so_ tempted to burst in and pin you to your bed and rip your clothes off and just”—he picked up his wand and flicked it, sending a sharp thrill of tingly pain down her body—“fuck you till you screamed for me, even though you would’ve hated to do it. _Especially_ because you would’ve hated to do it.” He opened his black robes, revealing that he was not wearing any underwear. He grabbed her left hip.

Hermione knew exactly what time he was talking about, but she wasn’t about to admit it openly. _He wanted to hold me down and force me,_ she thought. _He actually had that fantasy._ It was a little unnerving, actually, but she pushed that thought out of her head. He hadn’t done it, after all.

She could allude to the time, though. She could also get back in the role and pretend it was that time again. “You’re a Dark wizard,” she snarled.

He smirked, understanding her intentions. “Yes, love.” The word slithered off his tongue like an expression in the snaky language he could speak. “Did you delude yourself into thinking otherwise?”

She ignored that question. “You may violate and use me, but I will _never_ give you that satisfaction.”

The statement sent her mind quickly down a trail of thought. _Use me._ Did she, on some level, like the idea of pretending he was doing that to sate his dark urge for power?

He growled ferally, eyes shining with menace—and approval. “You will, though,” he hissed. He reached for her knickers and yanked them off, tossing them aside. He positioned himself over her, gripping her hips tightly, fingernails digging into her skin. “You’ll take me into your body, no matter how much you hate the idea, and you will beg for me to make you come.” He leered at her, smiling darkly.

His arrogant words seemed to echo through her mind, arousing and exciting her further. His cock was right at her entrance, teasing her with the promise of relief but not delivering. They seemed to realize at the same time how wet she was there. She flushed faintly, and he lifted one side of his mouth in a knowing, smug, asymmetric smirk.

“You’ve already started to,” he said. “Your body craves me.”

“Even if I did,” she growled defensively, “even so—it’s only a physical response.”

“Is that so? Well, let’s try something else.” Tom backed away from her, bringing a cry of protest from her, and raised his wand. He pointed it in the direction of the locked cabinet in the corner.

The lock clicked and the doors opened as he silently cast spells. Then, with a pointed, triumphant look at her, he spoke the other incantation aloud. _“Accio diary.”_

It sailed through the air, miraculously not flying open. He caught it elegantly, almost as if he were a Seeker, and licked his lips as he gazed at her.

“You wouldn’t,” she breathed—and this time it was not an act.

“I would.” He opened the diary, gazed at its blank pages for a moment, and then drew away a silver strand of memory from his head, which he dropped onto the pages. It vanished into the book. A faint hiss of Parseltongue came from the diary.

“I just told it what I wanted it to do,” he explained in an insufferably arrogant tone, regarding her with that same smug look. “You see, you _hurt_ me that time when you rejected me.”

_I knew it,_ Hermione thought. _I knew that was the time he meant._

With a flick of his wand, he vanished the ropes that bound her wrists to the bed. But she was not free. He placed the diary over her wrists. Immediately, it grabbed her, just as it had done the very first time he had wanted her to write to it. She couldn’t pull away, and she couldn’t move her arms from above her head. It was like the ropes were still there, except… more. She also again felt the sensation—which she had only experienced the one time—of a personal, familiar, nonphysical touch, almost ghost-like except for being warm and dry.

Even though she knew it was probably futile, she tried to pull away, truly a bit afraid that the Horcrux would try to possess her during an intimate moment. It was no use. If anything, the incorporeal grip on her wrists tightened. The invisible tendrils curled up her arms.

_“You aren’t going anywhere, my dear,”_ she heard, faintly, in her mind. Her heart thumped in sudden anxiety—and something else, something she definitely wasn’t going to acknowledge.

Tom descended upon her once more. He forced her legs apart roughly and positioned himself between them. “Now,” he snarled, eyes definitely and unmistakably flashing scarlet, “you _will_ take me in, and you will please me, and you will respond to me—and if you don’t cooperate of your own accord, _well._ I’ll just have to use my last resort, won’t I?” He smirked and gazed meaningfully at the diary.

_Oh my God,_ Hermione thought. Just how far _was_ he willing to take this fantasy? Clearly it had been lurking in his mind for some time. He was playing his part well, she thought—almost too well.

She could not think too hard about that, though, because in the next moment, he surged forward, filling her to the hilt. It did not escape either of them how easily he slid into her. It also did not escape her—and probably not him either—that the walls of her cunt had clenched around him immediately, almost painfully, the surge of desire was so sudden.

“That’s good,” he murmured, beginning to move. His fingers dug into her sides, making her gasp. He smiled a dark, approving smile at her. “That’s right. Whenever you have to respond to me, do it.”

“You arrogant, dark—”

He thrust in her and suddenly stopped moving. He leaned down, put his hands on either side of her face, and planted a hard, rough kiss on her lips, biting at them and pulling away before letting go. “Yes, and _you like it,”_ he hissed near her ear.

The tendrils around her wrists moved slightly, like a pair of snakes. Their grip did not loosen.

“Open your legs wider.”

She stared back defiantly and did not budge.

“I _said_ open your legs wider.” He did not wait for her to defy him again, but reached between her thighs and forced them apart. He pushed deeper in her, as far as he could go, and sighed in relief. Then he began to thrust in her again.

Hermione was close to her climax, but she did not want it to happen yet. She wanted to make this last longer. Fortunately, they had ample experience by now in that.

“You’re close,” Tom observed as he moved back and forth. She wondered if it was ordinary sensory observation—he was, after all, very perceptive—or if that… _thing_ holding her wrists had assisted him somehow.

“You’re close,” he repeated. He smirked. “Face it, Hermione _dearest._ You’ll let me violate and defile you, let me enter you—and welcome it. You’ll come for me, exactly when I want you to—and you’ll let _me_ come inside you.”

Somehow she knew that he wanted a response to that, and probably not an accepting one. She could not say how—perhaps it was the dark, cocky leer he gave her, though a leer with a very slightly quirked eyebrow—but she knew he did.

“It’s not as if I can do anything about it now,” she shot back, “so does it matter what I’ll ‘let’ you do?”

His mouth narrowed in satisfaction. He thrust hard again, almost as if to make his point. “No, it doesn’t. You are _mine_ and I’ll do as I please with what belongs to me. Isn’t that so?”

He wanted a defiant response to that too, she could tell. “I do not _belong_ to you.”

“You _do,”_ he hissed. “You are mine. You’ve already proved that. You’ll come when I tell you to, and you will accept my seed when I give it to you….” He leaned close to her face and whispered harshly in her ear, “And if I want to, I’ll plant it in your womb, and you’ll bear my children, and you’ll _like_ it.”

She shifted beneath him and opened her mouth. “How _dare_ you—”

“I dare nothing. You’ll do it if I want you to, and you’ll like it, and I know this because you are mine and you _already have.”_

Was he playing at all anymore? Hermione honestly could not tell. She met his eyes. They gleamed with both white and red in different places.

_“Won’t you?”_ he hissed commandingly. He withdrew from her almost entirely and removed his hands from her sides.

“If you want,” she whispered, not looking at him.

He smirked in satisfaction. Then, within a second, she felt the light touch of his fingertips in her dripping core. She breathed deeply and closed her eyes at the sensation. She heard him chuckle as he delved into her folds.

When he reached her clitoris and pressed against it, rolling it between his fingers and the hard warmth of his cock, she shattered.

An almost inhuman sound escaped her, half a groan and half a scream, as wave upon wave of pleasure and relief poured over her body.

His hands left her core and found her hips again. Still riding her own wave, she only vaguely felt her own slick wetness spread over her hipbones as he pushed back into her, hard, all the way, and thrust back and forth as hard and quick as he ever had before, clearly sent almost over the edge himself from the sight of her.

She was finally starting to relax again when he grabbed her shoulders roughly and pinned her against the mattress. He pushed forward into her, stopped moving, and squeezed his eyes closed as he released in her. She once again felt the strength of his hands on her shoulders as he clenched them, digging into her skin, gasping and grunting as he spent himself.

He collapsed on top of her some time later, still breathing heavily, stroking her sides with caresses that were gentle and yet very possessive.

_I want to hold him,_ she thought idly. She had started to move her arms when she remembered the resolute grip of his soul in the diary—

—But it did not matter, she discovered. The book tumbled down the pillow. It had already released her.

He seemed to remember it at the same time. He reached up and picked it up, bringing it to rest in the space between their pillows.

She draped her arms around him, feeling lazy and satisfied—but also a little unsure of something. “Tom,” she said hesitantly, “how much of that was real?”

He looked up, meeting her eyes without moving his head at all.

“Tom?”

He only smiled back enigmatically.


End file.
